


declarations of innocence.

by 222Ravens



Series: The Un-Deleted Fragments [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Texts, Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Somewhat Random
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/222Ravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a great number of things left un-deleted in Sherlock Holmes' mind. One of them is The Book of Coming Forth by Day, more commonly known as the Egyptian Book of the Dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	declarations of innocence.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation by E.A. Wallis Budge, of the British Museum. 

 

His mind, as he liked to say, was a hard drive of limited capacity. He has deleted a great deal from it over the years, for various reasons. Things he'd rather forget, things he doesn't want to think about, those he _can't_ think about, and ones that are simply irrelevant details or information. It is neat, organized, everything in its proper place, nothing that needn't be there.

 

On occasion, however unwanted things slipped through his careful system, things his mind would catch on and quite refuse to let go of. He rarely able to determine why, but it is a uncommon enough occurrence it does not other him unduly.

 

He is sitting in a shabby motel in the second largest city of Lithuania, in the middle of sending a text to a contact on an untraceable burner phone provided by Mycroft. It had been two very long months. It is necessary, of course, but it rankles him to be… away. 

He finds himself not liking being on his own, which surprises him, considering how long that had been his way of living. Eighteen months with John Watson and he was, quite without meaning to be, a better man in some ways. And quite a weaker one in others.

The man of twenty months ago, still only barely clean from cocaine and heroin, barely caring whether he lived or died beyond the work… He might have simply walked away, because that would have been _winning_. But he also suspects the man of twenty months ago wouldn't have had three people to care about enough, not for the game to have been played out. 

And now? Now he cared. Sentiment. A dangerous weakness. 

It was startling, but despite what he had said to the Woman, despite his Fall... Despite everything it hadn't _felt_ like losing. If it was a weakness, it was a necessary one, for he knew, now. Knew what kind of man he would be without it. _Exactly_ what sort of man.

But he was dead, now, in all the ways that truly counted. So even if he had wanted, he couldn't do anything about that revelation. He was _dead_.

And now he was sitting on a bed bug-riddled mattress in Eastern Europe, his mind spinning loose with these thoughts. A mind that, ought, instead, to be concentrating on the task at hand.

A mind that, instead, of all things, was trapped on the translation of the Ancient Egyptian _Book of Coming Forth by Day_.

He had read it as a child in the British museum, having escaped the clutches of his nanny for the afternoon, snuck onto two buses and into the museum unnoticed. He was there for several hours before Mycroft had found him arguing with the curator that one of the mummies had clearly been murdered by their vizier, and he was demanding to know why this salient detail was not on the information plaque.

He was unsure why he had not deleted it, other than as a memory of the outing, but for now it was running slowly through his head, a portion of it seemingly on a loop that he couldn't quite shake. 

 

The part was called _The Declarations of Innocence_ , and he was scarcely surprised how few he passed.

 

_Hail, Fenti, who comest forth from Khemenu, I have done no violence._

Wrong.

_Hail, Neha-hau, who comest forth from Rasta, I have not slain men._

He recites this mentally, the words rattling in his skull, while cleaning hands and face of blood. He had shot a high level associate of Moriarity's, point blank, in the head. A liason, one of Mycroft's men, had handled the more… delicate aspects of interrogation. They had gotten a surprising amount of information, before Sherlock had attempted to question the man himself. Ten minutes in, Sherlock had killed him. It hadn't been rational, the man might still have had crucial information, but he had done it nonetheless. The man has provided, among other things, the gun that Moriarity's lieutenant had planned on using to shoot John. Sherlock had shot him after learning this..

It had been _such_ an emotional action, an act of... Passion, almost. That frightened him.

_Hail, Hetch-abhu, who comest from Ta-she, I have attacked no man._

He remembered how he had lunged at Moriarity, in Kitty Reilly's apartment. He had justified it to himself as being part of the plan, to force Moriarity to flee to allow more time to bring his plan into place. Justified it as rational, logical, dispassionate. It hadn't been, really.

_Hail, Thenemi, who comest forth from Bast, I have never pried into matters._

Hah.

_Hail, Nekhem, who comest forth from Heq-at, I have not turned a deaf ear to the words of truth._

"Someone loves you," The Woman had said, and he had ignored it, because John was ignoring it, and he couldn't admit even to himself he felt the same, not unless… 

He didn't feel things that way. Whether it was couldn't, or wouldn't was irrelevant. 

_Hail, Her-f-ha-f, who comest forth from thy cavern, I have not lain with men._

Even this confession he was not entirely safe on. Most would be surprised, but he was not technically virgin. 

However, he chose not to count for very much those few drug addled encounters. In truth, they that had been more out of misplaced loneliness or curiosity than any real emotion. And John was 'not gay', and Sherlock was dead. 

Irrelevant point. Why was he thinking of that? Delete that thought. 

_Hail, Maa-antuf, who comest forth from Per-MENU, I have not polluted myself ._

He thought of years of drug addiction, and how close he had been to succumbing again before he had met John, John who was a doctor, John who was somehow a _friend_ , John who wouldn't approve. 

It wasn't something he had ever mentioned, but he also hadn't used since. 

There was a needle and a small bag buried in his backpack, but he hadn't used them, either. He needed clarity, now, more than ever. They served well enough as a reminder, of sorts, however. Of the price of failure, and how he had been pulled back from oblivion. He believed in paying back favours.

_Hail, Neb-abui, who comest forth from Sauti, I have not multiplied my speech overmuch._

He still talked to John, sometimes, before he caught himself, and forced himself into silence. 

He couldn't afford mistakes.

His mobile beeps, and he reflexively checks it. It's a text from Mycroft, the same as he sends every five days, like clockwork. The latest surveillance still of John, limping down a London street. He didn't ask for it, but he also hasn't told Mycroft to stop sending them. It's another reminder. 

_Hail, , who comest forth from Shetait, I have made none to weep._

John would believe his 'note', given enough time, and move on. John needed to believe, needed to be safe, or there wasn't any point to anything. John didn't _need_ him, despite what the man had said at Sherlock's grave. 

And he needed John to be safe more than he needed John to believe in him.

_Hail, Arti-f-em-tes, who comest forth from Sekhem, I have not acted deceitfully._

It was necessary, all of it, the only way. 

That didn't make it easier. It ought to have, but didn't.

_Hail, Neheb-Nefert, who comest forth from the Lake of Nefer, I have not acted with insufferable insolence._

It was his fault, all of it.

_Hail, Ta-ret, who comest forth from Akhkhu, I have not eaten my heart._

He isn't very good at this.

 

 

 


End file.
